THINE AT LAST.
Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,
On which my soul’s beloved swore
That there should come a time of bliss
When she would mock my hopes no more;
And fancy shall thy glow renew,
In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,
And none shall steal thy holy dew
Till thou’rt absolved by rapture’s rite.
Sweet hours that are to make me blest,
Oh! fly, like breezes, to the goal,
And let my love, my more than soul,
Come panting to this fevered breast;
And while in every glance I drink
The rich o’erflowings of her mind,
Oh! let her all impassioned sink,
In sweet abandonment resigned,
Blushing for all our struggles past,
And murmuring, “I am thine at last!”
Moore.
